I sat by the ocean

I sat by the ocean and drank a potion, baby, to erase you. He mumbled that song to himself. He wondered if it would work—if he went to the doctor, would the pain go away? He started to drift off, the waves lapping at his feet, staring at the curvature of the horizon.

The waiting room was quiet. Bleak, as expected. The walls were cream. That dull, hospital shade. He thought it suited his mood.

Across from him, a poster asked people to wash their hands. “Sure,” he muttered. “If life’s worth it.”

There were only two others in the room. Both with their eyes down on phones. Still wearing masks. He found that strange. COVID was mostly over, but the hiding hadn’t stopped. Mouths were still missing from faces. It unsettled him. He liked to read people. Smiles, twitches, flinches. Without that, they became shadows.

He didn’t wear a mask anymore. He didn’t care if he got it. Not really. That wasn’t quite true — he didn’t want others to get sick. He just didn’t care what happened to him. The thought gave him a shot of guilt. It hit low and fast.

A door opened. A young woman stepped out. Afro like a halo. White coat. She called his name.

He stood. “Okay,” he said quietly. His head pulsed with tension. He raised a hand so she could see who he was. Followed her down the corridor. The doors were all the same. Closed. They reminded him of lockers or soldiers.

It was five minutes past the appointment. He was always early. Everyone else was always late. That small imbalance wore him down.

He sat beside her desk. She didn’t invite him.

“So, how are you?” she asked, barely looking up from the screen.

“Not great,” he said.

She typed. Keys clacked. The sound felt mechanical. Cold.

He remembered her now. He’d seen her before. British accent. African. Lived in London. That triggered a memory — his mother in a blue dressing gown, frying chips in silence, smoke curling from her cigarette. Kensitas. Her hair dyed blonde. She cried but said nothing.

He didn’t know why he remembered that. Or why it mattered now. He was fifty. Maybe memories arrived when everything else was leaving.

The doctor kept typing.

He sat still. Hands folded. Then looked down at the floor.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he said. “I wanted to kill myself the other night.”

He didn’t look up. His lip shook. Then came the tears. Unstoppable. Silent.

Fuck, he thought. Control yourself.

She slid a small note toward him. She placed a box of tissues next to it. Then kept typing.

He read the card.

13 11 14. Lifeline’s number.

He nearly laughed. “Of course,” he said under his breath. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

He was running on fumes. The last of a cask of cheap white wine vaguely on his breath. That and muscle memory.

His feet felt heavy. His stomach twisted. Face burning. He stood.

“Sorry. This was a mistake. I don’t belong here”

His hand was on the door when she said, “Sit down, please.”

He stopped. His hand hovered. Then fell away. He sat again. He had nowhere else to go. Nothing else to try.

They told him to talk. Talk to your GP. You’re not alone.

The headache throbbed now. Behind the eyes. He could taste bile. The room faint odour of antiseptic.

Suddenly, another memory: being sick in bed as a child, antiseptic. A bucket nearby. Stripped sheets. Grey sky through the window. His mother at the door. Silent. Watching. Just watching. Not even stepping inside.

Then a gentler one: her scarf blowing behind her as she pushed the pram, blue pram, he liked blue. He waved at strangers as they passed. Everyone smiled back.

Now, there was no one to wave to. No purpose. No point. He was hollow. He was the leftover part.

If he were guaranteed to die by his own hand, he’d be gone already. But life doesn’t offer guarantees. Just ideas that fade before they happen.

The plan was simple. Walk the tracks. Headphones. Booze. A note online. Tie the dog to the neighbor’s fence — Kent would take care of her. Kent was decent, he’d look after my girl.

Another plan he wouldn’t follow through on. He couldn’t even get suicide right. Scared of another failure. He chuckled at the absurdity.

“I need you to get a blood test,” the doctor said.

“A blood test?” he repeated.

“Yes. To see what’s going on.”

Was she joking?

He needed warmth. Comfort. Striped sheets. He needed someone to say it would be okay. He needed his mum.

The printer groaned, then spat out a form. She handed it to him.

“Twelve hours fasting,” she said. “Do it as soon as you can.”

He shook his head. “No chance. I need a drink. Haven’t had one in two days. I’m going to get wine.”

She looked at him again. A pause.

“There’s a counselor on-site,” she said. “Used to be a nurse here. Ask reception. You’re entitled to ten free sessions.”

He nodded.

Then stood. Then left.

He didn’t stop at reception.

Outside, the doors slid closed behind him. The cold hit his burning face like a slap. He welcomed it.

To the right, the silver Mercedes truck waited at the intersection. Its trailer curtain rippled in the breeze. Blue; too blue. Almost electric. It shimmered like water.

The chrome Mercedes badge caught the light and seemed to glow.

Straight ahead, a woman pushed an old pram. The child inside held something in their hand. A toy. Blue. The same blue.

The child waved it slowly as they passed. The woman waved at him.

He felt the street shift. Something slipped behind his ribs. He stared. The woman looked familiar.

He raised his hand in return.

Stepped forward.

A horn sounded. Not sharp; it rang like a low bell.

Everything slowed.

The light fractured. The truck wasn’t a truck anymore. Not exactly. It was bigger than it looked. Endless. Blue swallowed everything.

He floated for a moment. Or maybe he was falling. It was hard to tell.

Far away, someone shouted,

“Someone call an ambulance!”

The wind moved the curtain again. It fluttered like something alive, something trying to speak. Then stilled, and with it, everything else fell silent.

With the seawater flicking at his face and his choppy breaths, he studied the barren shore. It blurred, then went black.